Microsoft word - thirties.new.doc

Early the next morning, a plumber’s truck parked near the
Pitzker Antiquities shop. The driver was a man in overalls and a
painter’s cap. He climbed out of the cab, a wrench in his hand, and
“Hi, Marta,” he said. “Are they open?”
“Not yet.” Also dressed in worker’s overalls, she was staring
through a small telescope that she had pressed against the wall of
the truck. “Oh, here comes the receptionist. She’s attractive. She
Madison decided that no response was required. He sat on
an empty milk jug. The light in the truck was dim, and there was
thick dust on its corrugated floor. After ten minutes, Marta said,
“Here’s Pitzker. He’s inside, taking his hat off. Having a little chat.
Looking at his phone messages. Now he’s gone into the office.
Notice that it’s precisely nine. Germans accuse the Viennese of
Schlamperai -- messiness -- but you have to admit they’re fanatically
Another half-hour passed, and Madison said, “Is anything
“You look.” Marta handed him the telescope. He adjusted
his eye to the instrument and scanned the plush shop. The
receptionist was reading a magazine; Pitzker was nowhere to be
seen. Every few seconds, a large, blurry figure would cut across
Madison’s vision, startling him. The nearest shoppers were just
Marta said, “Did you see that archaeologist chap last night?
In the back row, grinning malevolently?”
“St.-Germain? I saw him, all right. He said ‘adieu’ to me. He
should have said ‘à bientôt.’ We aren’t finished with him.”
“Why did you call him by a French name?”
“Because der Graf von Sanktus-Germanus is a translation of
“Maybe. The original St.-Germain was an eighteenth-century
courtier -- and an alleged spy -- who frequented Versailles before
the Revolution and Berlin under Frederick the Great. He had one
“He seemed to be immortal. As King Louis said, ‘St.
Germain is the man who knows everything, and who never dies.’
He claimed that he’d discovered the elixir of youth in the Orient.
People who saw him decades apart remarked that he was utterly
unchanged. He had clear memories -- or so he boasted -- of
Solomon and Amenhotep. Someone once asked the count’s
manservant if St.-Germain really was three thousand years old. The
valet replied that he doubted it, for the Count had seemed to age.
Of course, the valet had been hired during the twelfth century.”
“Why did anyone believe such nonsense?” Marta asked.
“Well, St.-Germain didn’t brag about it too much. In public,
he would never eat, saying that he’d discovered a superior
substitute for food. He would casually drop references to events
from centuries past; then blush and talk vaguely about his great old
age. Strange rumors started to spread. One thing was certain: he
had remarkable skills as a chemist. He invented several new kinds
of dye and started successful factories. Also, he knew scores of
languages, including Sanskrit and Chinese. Evidently, he’d picked
“Did any of the other courtiers know Sanskrit well enough
“I doubt it. Hey,” Madison added, “here comes a customer.
He’s a burly guy in a wool coat and bowler hat. He’s inside,
wasting no time with those Cycladic fertility figures. Pitzker’s come
out of his office; they’re talking. His hat’s still on. Wait a second,
now Pitzker’s got our pole, and it’s all wrapped up again.”
Marta pulled a painter’s cap over her curls and opened the
back door a crack. “Don’t you want me to drive?” said Madison.
“No, because I’ve been trained in urban surveillance. But
They walked around the truck and climbed into the cab. In
the mirror, Madison could see the customer leaving with his
package. Marta waited until he had turned the corner, then
followed. They tailed him across the Ringstrasse and into newer
districts near the Belvedere Palace. Marta stayed far behind him
most of the time. Sometimes, when he was in the middle of a long
block, she would drive around a corner so that he completely
“You’re going to lose him,” said Madison at one point. The
bowler hat was barely visible in the crowd.
“No, he’s going to turn right at the next intersection,” said
“You can read people. They anticipate their next turn.”
At last they reached a quiet thoroughfare lined with turn-of-
the-century apartment blocks: solid, Renaissance-revival buildings
with heavy cornices and big windows. The man they were
following entered a door near the corner. Marta pulled onto the
“I daren’t park too close,” she said, “in case this fellow has a
good eye for grubby old lorries. You get out with your wrench and
walk around the block. But don’t be obvious about it.”
Madison swung his wrench and whistled as he walked
down the street. Casually, he observed the door to a very narrow
stone building with a flat roof and no windows. It was unmarked
Madison walked straight past, turned left at three
intersections, and climbed back into the cab. Marta said, “He used a
brace of keys to get in. Since the building has no windows, I can’t
Madison said, “There’s no name on the door, so we can’t
look them up. We’ll have to think about breaking in.”
Marta stepped out of the truck and said, “Drive around the
neighborhood. I’ll be in the back. When you’re sure that no one can
Madison changed seats and started the engine. When he
heard a rap behind him, he drove a little way, turned, and found
himself between the high garden wall of the Belvedere and a
railroad track. He stopped to let the traffic pass, then thumped
twice. He heard the back door open and close. In a minute, Marta
walked by, looking just like a Viennese housewife in pumps and a
raincoat A piece of paper fluttered from her body. Madison
retrieved it and read: “Be back here in 15 minutes. Keep driving
He drove to the Ringstrasse, crossed the Danube Canal
twice, and returned to the Belvedere just a minute late. Marta
approached from the opposite direction and walked right by,
dropping a matchbook on the ground as she passed. This time she
had written, “Südbahnhof, 12:05. Cross concourse. No plumber’s
Madison found a quiet place to park, removed his overalls,
and walked to Vienna’s southern train station. He weaved through
the crowds between the ticket offices and the railway platforms
until someone grabbed his arm and said, in credible Viennese
dialect, “Herr Karl! A pleasure to see you here.”
“Fraülein --” He couldn’t think of a good name.
“Don’t you remember me?” said Marta. “Anna Magdalena
Schmidt. My father supplied your mother’s pastry shop.”
“Of course,” said Madison, and they walked together to the
station cafe, a smoky, crowded place. Seated at an inconspicuous
table, they spoke quietly in English. “I saw something interesting,”
Marta said. “There’s a man watching the street from the building
opposite. He has a pretty nice set-up, with translucent curtains and
“He could be a lookout for the folks in the windowless
“He could be, but I think he’s spying on them.”
“So we have company.” Madison stirred his coffee and
glanced at the laborers and meter maids at nearby tables. “Who do
“Not the NKVD. If he were a Soviet officer, then I wouldn’t
have been able to spot him in the first place. For the same reason,
he can’t be Gestapo. You know,” she added, “it would be easier to
surprise a peeping tom than to break into a stone fortress. And he
Marta left Madison at the Südbahnhof while she bought a
handgun from underworld suppliers. This took her nearly three
hours, and until she returned, Madison pretended to wait for trains
to Yugoslavia. It was dusk by the time they reached the street with
the windowless building. They approached on the opposite side,
sticking close to the rusticated walls of the apartment blocks. Marta
stopped at a door and fiddled with a lock until it opened.
They now stood in the marble foyer of a modest residence.
There were mailboxes on the left; the floors smelled of antiseptic.
Marta picked up a heavy coal shovel that she found near the back
door. They ran quietly two flights up, and then Marta counted
doors. “I hope I’m right,” she whispered.
They backed against the opposite wall, then charged with
their shoulders down, holding the shovel like a battering ram. The
door cracked down the middle but held in place. They took two
steps back and charged once more, crashing into the room.
It was dark and unfurnished except for lacy curtains and the
camera. By the window stood a skinny man with a long face and a
mop of bushy, reddish-brown hair. He held a knife in his trembling
He was shaking all over, but he wouldn’t move. Marta drew
“Shoot me now,” he said. “I don’t want torture.” The pitch
The next thing Madison knew, Marta had the man’s gaunt
arm in her hand, and the bare knife was waving toward the
window. Madison ran over and pried it free, eliciting a piteous cry.
“It’s all right,” said Marta. “We’re probably on the same
“Oh, buck up,” said Marta. “Your name?”
“Hello, Egon, I’m Marta. This is Madison. We’re good guys.
“I’m not always successful,” Madison observed.
“Egon, what are you doing in this flat?” Marta held her gun
“I see -- just you and your camera. Do you know your
neighbors across the street? Would you like us to take you over
“Oh, please, God, no! Mercy! I beg you --”
“All right, all right. Tell us the truth, and you’ll be fine.
You’re spying on the gentlemen in the house with the blank walls.
my house,” said Egon, sorrowfully.
Madison asked, “You live there?” He was beginning to
“Of course not. I’m a member of the Lodge.”
“The Lodge,” said Marta. “What’s its full name?”
“Oh, yes you can,” she said, taking the knife from Madison.
She now held a deadly weapon in each hand.
Egon gave a soft shriek and said, “It’s the Illustrious
“If you’re a member,” said Marta, “why are you so afraid to
go over there? Why are you spying on your own organization?”
“Because it’s been taken away from us.” Egon began to
babble, gesticulating with his bony fingers: “We let a few join at
first. They had friends, and soon there was a whole faction. They
were very learned and frightfully serious. Old members stopped
attending. One of the original group, Wilibald Meyer, vanished
altogether; then his body washed up near Schwechat. He’d been
castrated. The Grand Master moved to expel the new faction when
he found out what they’d done with the Codex Fludd. There was a
struggle. For a while, there were two Masters -- I don’t know
exactly how that started. Appeal was made to the Graz chapter,
which sided with the usurper. We voted; their man won. Then our
Master was arrested on sodomy charges -- totally unfounded,
sacrilegious accusations -- and they carted him away.”
“What’s going on in there now?” Madison asked.
“I don’t know, exactly. They’ve removed our library.”
Marta glanced out the window. “Where did they take it?”
“Because they’re using our grimoires: the Codex Borgia and
the book we call T. I can feel resonances. Somewhere to the south
and east, necromancy is being performed.”
Marta, obviously skeptical, asked, “Did you actually see the
Egon stabbed the air with his fingers, which he held tightly
together in twos and threes. “With my very own eyes, yes.”
“So what’s your plan?” Madison asked.
“Revenge. I have photographs; I have one hair cutting. There
are still black manuals in my possession. Their doom will be
horrible, unspeakable. I will imprison their souls in the body of
roasting, hornèd goats. I will offer them up to Lucifer, their infernal
master. They will scream like gutted cats. I will send them direct to
the fourth circle. No, when I’m done, they will long for the torments
of the damned.” His eyes grew misty and his skinny fists clenched
Marta asked, “What about the Comte de St.-Germain? Is he
Egon practically spat. “He calls himself that.”
“You know,” said Marta, “we’ve followed that imposter all
the way from Persia. We nearly killed him in the Alamut Valley.
We did destroy his whole organization. He hates us and fears us.”
“What do you intend to do with him?” Egon’s eyes became
“If you’ll help us to break in across the street, then he’s a
Madison asked, “Is anything left in there? Any of the
“Not really.” Egon became suspicious. “Why? Are you after
“No,” said Madison, “we don’t want your books, but we’d
like to make sure that evil people don’t control them. If we find
what they’ve stolen, we’ll give it all back to you. But you have to
tell us: is there anything valuable left in Vienna?”
“We’ll take care of St.-Germain if you’ll tell us.” Marta
you’ll steal our treasures,” said Egon.
Marta told Madison, “This is a waste of time. The Lodge
Egon looked hurt. “You’re wrong about that,” he
“No, I think you’re right, Marta,” said Madison, sighing.
“This is just another bunch of harmless hobbyists, playing at magic.
Ladies with crystal balls and ouija boards who hear thumps under
the table. They don’t own anything worthwhile.”
Egon’s voice squeaked with excitement. “What would you
like to see more than anything else in the world? What have you
always dreamed of seeing? What’s the sanctum sanctorum of the
occult?” He paused for dramatic emphasis, his fingers spread like
spider’s legs. Madison guessed what he was going to say, but let
him finish. With his face contorted, Egon announced: “The Vault of
“The seven-sided vault,” said Madison, acting unimpressed.
“No books.” Egon’s face fell. “What we hadn’t removed
already, those demons across the street sent overseas. But they
couldn’t move the alchemical samples.”
Madison spoke in a reasonable tone. “Look, if we’re bad
guys, then we’ll find it anyway, after we torture you. Or St.-
Germain will. You’ll lose either way. But if we’re friends, then we
can protect Rosenkreutz’ samples. You must simply tell us where
“Maybe,” said Egon. “First, I’ll have to investigate you
spiritually. I’ll need an item of clothing from each, something
Despite his disgust, Madison managed to say, “That’s a good
Egon pouted. “I’ll need your underwear.”
Marta asked, her voice slightly weary, “How much time will
you need for these -- investigations?”
“Yes,” he conceded, evidently unwilling to forgo any
“All right. You can have our underwear. We’ll meet you in
the Kunsthistorisches Museum on Thursday at three. Madison,
“Very well. Turn him around.” Madison turned Egon to face
the window while Marta removed her stockings and underwear.
Then it was Madison’s turn to pull his boxer shorts off. Once they
had replaced their outer clothes, they left. As they walked away,
they noticed Egon in his window, photographing them assiduously
Driving toward Heiligenstadt, Marta said, “What shall we
“We could watch the Fraternity of the Alchemical Cross.”
“A waste of time, I think. We can’t see anything in there.”
“Good,” said Madison. “I’m getting sick of this truck.”
They were driving along the embankment of the Danube
Canal, with the faded amusement park of the Prater to their right.
Men slept almost head to toe along the wall, beneath swastikas and
“You know,” Marta said, “I’m becoming rather pessimistic.
This Egon fellow’s obviously a lunatic, and we’re actually going to
wait for him to examine our underwear.” She snorted.
“If he doesn’t turn out to be helpful, we can always find
another way to infiltrate the Lodge. Maybe we can use Pitzker as an
“All right, but what kind of nonsense is going on there,
anyway? I had just started to find this occult business eerie, and
then someone said the word ‘alchemy.’ I can take kabbalah half
seriously, especially after what happened to us in that cave.
Besides, I know nothing about it, so I’m respectful out of ignorance.
But alchemy? I studied some chemistry at Moscow State University.
Alchemy is just chemistry minus the knowledge, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” said Madison. “As you know, some
alchemists were just hacks who tried to turn lead into gold. They
were called ‘puffers.’ Others were con men who sold dyed copper
as gold and then left town before it could be assayed. But these
people were denounced by the true alchemists, who claimed that
they didn’t care about material wealth. They sought the secret of
metamorphosis in general, not just a way to turn lead into precious
metal. What they really wanted was spiritual understanding and
“That sounds lovely,” said Marta; “but clearly they failed.
Science came along and put them out of business. Today, we
They had left the canal and entered the grimy streets of
North Vienna. It had started to rain -- big drops that smeared the
windshield. Madison said, “Actually, it’s hard to tell whether
alchemy worked or not. Science is public; its results are published
and checked. But alchemy was an occult art. In fact, the word
‘hermetic,’ meaning secret, is derived from the name of the first
alchemist, Hermes Trismegistus. His followers performed
clandestine experiments constantly for twenty-five centuries,
whereas chemists have only been working for about two hundred
years. If the alchemists discovered something, we wouldn’t know
about it. Their achievements wouldn’t be obvious things, like
wealth or immortality; they’d be spiritual goods.”
“But if alchemy was such an otherworldly business, then
“Because it was another effort to find the primeval language.
In a way, it was similar to kabbalah. For Jewish mystics, the
universe was constructed when God combined letters to make
words. For alchemists, the building blocks were chemical elements
that formed compounds. Structurally, the two systems were so
similar that occultists sometimes fused them, mapping alchemical
elements onto Hebrew words, and vice-versa.”
“I agree that a limited number of elements form the
universe,” said Marta, lifting both hands off the steering wheel to
emphasize her point. “But now we know exactly what they are:
helium, hydrogen, lithium, barium, --. They’re on the periodic
“Why?” said Madison. “Maybe there are many ways to
Marta looked annoyed. “Only one way has produced
verifiable results: science. The periodic table is testable. It works.”
“Look at it this way,” said Madison. “We test theories. For
example, I propose that heat plus water makes steam. Test it, and
you’ll find it’s true. However, I expressed that theory in a language,
which isn’t testable. English and French aren’t true or false. There’s
room for countless languages in the universe, because linguistic
signs are arbitrary; what matters are the relationships among
words. For instance, the relationship between homme and femme is
roughly the same as the relationship between man and woman;
either language will do. So perhaps alchemy and kabbalah aren’t
theories, they’re languages; and so is science. They’re all networks
of relationships, composed of signs that are neither true nor false
Marta parked the truck and cut the engine. She stared into
the rainy darkness for a few minutes, and then announced, “I can’t
accept that chemistry is on the same level as alchemy. Some
systems of thought are more rational than others; and I’ll put my
money on science and Marxism, not occult gibberish. But if what
you say is right, and all languages are arbitrary and equal, then
there can be no true names -- no language of Adam. Any system
would be as good as any other. In that case, I don’t see what the
Nazis are trying to learn by studying the occult.”
She had been facing the windshield as she talked; but now
she turned her intense eyes toward Madison. He was genuinely
perplexed. “You know,” he said, “I’m not really very clever about
these matters. But the best philosopher of language in the whole
world is Viennese. Let’s see if we can find him tomorrow and grill
“Oh, good. Grilling people is my specialty.”
They had made themselves somewhat more comfortable in
their warehouse by finding a mattress on the second floor. In the
morning, they rode trams south to the Ring. On its southeast side,
there was a pretty park with winding paths and bridges over
narrow streams. Geese strutted on the brown grass. Madison and
Marta crossed the park and entered a wealthy neighborhood
outside the Old City. Kundmangasse, not far away, was a typical
street of apartment blocks and small stores, sloping toward the
Danube Canal. But at number 19, they saw a striking building. In a
small, raised plot stood a structure of concrete and steel, starkly
simple in its conception -- an ensemble of rectangular blocks.
“See,” said Madison, as they mounted the garden steps, “this
is a rebuke to the Ringstrasse. Here is architecture without any style
at all -- an authentic building, for better or worse. Its architect is the
man I want to talk to. He built this place for his sister, Gretl
Stonborough. I don’t know if he’s in Vienna these days, but Gretl’s
thoughts will be illuminating. She lives in the U.S. part of the time
and has heard me lecture in San Francisco; we’re quite friendly. A
formidable woman -- she had a major influence on her brother.”
They rang the bell and a small woman in a lacy maid’s outfit
“I’m Madison Brown. Sorry, but I don’t have a calling card.
Will you see if Mrs. Stonborough is in?”
Madison and Marta waited in the anteroom below a short
flight of steps. The interior had no carpets or moldings; the lights
were bare bulbs. The floors were made of dark, glossy stone, and
the walls and ceilings had been painted a light mustard yellow.
Glass doors allowed the visitors to see deep into the building. At
the top of the stairs was a bronze bust of a young woman, modeled
impressionistically. “Marguerite Respinger,” said a label, “by
“Will you come inside,” said the maid. She led Madison and
Marta up the stairs and into a room furnished with Bauhaus chairs.
“I’ve heard,” Madison whispered, “that when this house was
finished and being cleaned, Wittgenstein noticed that the ceiling in
the drawing room was three centimeters too low. He demanded
that it be raised. When the contractor asked him if it really
mattered, he was outraged. So they rebuilt the whole place.”
Someone coughed behind him. She was a woman in middle
age, with dark hair, a long white dress, and haughty features.
“Frau Margarete Stonborough,” said Madison, “may I
introduce Captain Marta Khatchaturian. I hope we haven’t
“Not at all. I would have been frightfully angry if you had
visited Vienna and not looked me up, Herr Professor. Will you
They sat and looked into the garden, with its muted winter
colors. “I’m awfully sorry,” Frau Stonborough said, “to have to
entertain you so shabbily. I have just one dear servant left, and we
actually serve suppers in the kitchen. What brings you to this
degenerate city?” She sat erect and looked elegant even in her
ordinary clothes. To Madison, she sounded like an aristocratic
Englishwoman from the movies, although a trace of German could
“I can’t tell you our whole story,” Madison said. “It’s better
for you not to know the details. But we have a philosophical
problem. Our enemies think that they’ve discovered the one true
language. We’re wondering whether that’s possible. You see, these
“You really need my brother, Ludwig,” said Frau
Stonborough, accepting coffee from her maid.
“No, he’s holed up in a cottage by a Norwegian fjord.
Vienna and Cambridge distract him too much, apparently -- which
is our loss. You could send him a letter, though.”
“Perhaps that’s unnecessary. You know his Tractatus, don’t
“I’ve read it, but I don’t dare talk to Ludwig about it,
because he might fly into a rage if he thought I’d misunderstood
“It’s not exactly easy reading,” said Madison. “Do you own a
copy that I could show to Captain Khatchaturian?”
The maid was sent for the book, which Marta examined. It
was actually a volume of a journal, Annalen der naturphilosophie,
published in 1921. Not more than 75 pages long, it consisted of
short propositions, each numbered like books in the Dewey
decimal system. A few propositions were long and contained
complex logical symbols; others were very brief. Number 1.0, for
example, stated: “the world is everything that is the case.” In the
margins, corrections had been made in pencil and a few words had
“What is this?” Marta asked, flipping through the pages and
“It’s one of the greatest books ever written,” he said, “but
that doesn’t mean that I can explain it. Frau Stonborough, what
would you say about the Tractatus?”
“If you can. You see,” Madison told Marta, “Wittgenstein
has come the closest of any respectable philosopher to creating a
“Very well,” said Frau Stonborough. She fastened her pale
eyes on Marta and spoke deliberately. “Ludwig assumes that
ordinary languages, like English and German, must really reflect
one ideal language that’s made of pure logic plus pure facts. To
discover it, we must analyze our own languages down to their
atoms, their most basic particles. Ordinary words like chair are not
atomic. They can be logically analyzed. For example, if a chair is an
object for humans to sit on, then the word chair depends upon the
words person and sit. It can also be analyzed in other ways, perhaps
down to its component parts: steel, leather, thread. And each of
“Nevertheless, at some point, analysis must stop. There must
be logical atoms, if our language has any content. These atoms
must be fixed and changeless, or else they could be further
“I can’t.” She looked at Madison, who offered no assistance,
and then continued: “Perhaps there are no atomic words in our
ordinary languages. I sometimes think that Ludwig is referring to
metaphysical objects. They are logically necessary as the
foundation of language, but we don’t actually see them or speak
Marta said, “Yet they’re the words that occultists claim to
know. Does your brother say anything at all about them?”
Frau Stonborough said, “Yes, he explains how they work.”
She found a piece of paper by the telephone and drew the
“This,” she said, “is an imaginary world composed of just
nine objects and one logical rule: objects can be combined only with
adjacent objects. Once we know ‘a,’ we know that ‘a-d’ is a possible
combination, and ‘a-i’ is logically impossible. Ludwig’s point is
this: to know an object’s true name is to understand all its potential
Marta interrupted. “I find this all terribly abstract. How does
“Well,” said Frau Stonborough, “our world is just a more
complicated version of my chart. There are many more objects, and
the rules of combination are more complex. You look as if you want
an example. I suppose, according to Ludwig, your true name is not
“Right. Your true name is not Marta, but a word indicating
that you’re your father’s daughter, my guest, Dr. Brown’s friend,
and so on. Of course, there is no such word in any actual
“I think I understand names,” said Marta. “But how about
logic? You said that in your imaginary world, there was one rule:
objects could be connected to their neighbors. In our world, are
“On the contrary, just two. Union and negation, and and
Madison said, “What about causality?” He searched for an
example, finally turning to the object in Marta’s hand. “I see coffee
steaming in that cup,” he said, “so I infer that heat was applied to
water. Where does that kind of inference fit in?”
“Ludwig would turn your hypothesis into a logical
expression: Water boils if and only if heat is applied. This can be
analyzed into the logic of union and negation.”
She wrote the following expression on her paper and
q if and only if p = not (not p and q) and not (p and not q)
Then she continued, “You see, causality is just a more
complicated combination of ‘and’ and ‘not.’ Whenever I say that
something is true, I always mean that two objects, such as ‘a’ and
‘b,’ go together. When I say that something is not true, I’m refusing
to affirm such a connection. Everything we say is just a union of
affirmations and denials. You are Dr. Brown’s friend; you are not
Herr Hitler’s friend. The whole universe is a gigantic string of
atomic propositions connected by and’s -- with not written before
the false ones. Experience tells us which are true and false.
Anything, such as an aesthetic or moral judgment, that cannot be
expressed in these terms, is senseless. As Ludwig says, we must
“Aha,” said Marta: “your brother sounds like a man after my
“Not at all. Hand me the book, please.” Marta gave the
volume to Frau Stonborough, who translated proposition 6.432 into
English: “How the world is, is of no consequence to what is higher.
God does not manifest himself in the world.”
God get into this?” Marta looked disappointed.
Frau Stonborough said, “The statements in the Tractatus
depict what is essential about the world: its logical structure. The
picture they draw is beautiful. Ludwig believes that you could not
prove that one of Beethoven’s sonatas was beautiful, because an
aesthetic judgment cannot be translated into logical language. But
you could show its beauty through a sympathetic performance. This
would be a kind of picture, a beautiful representation of
“In the same way, Ludwig presents a picture or performance
of the logical structure of the world in his little book. He thereby
shows that the form of the world is beautiful, although of course its
content is awful. But God doesn’t care about facts, whether
something happens to be the case; He is concerned only with the
pure logical structure. To show that the structure is beautiful,
Ludwig aspires to aesthetic perfection in the design of his book,
which is crystalline, minimal, balanced, and rational like a work of
She gestured idly with a chalky finger. “His book makes no
concessions to the reader. For example, terms are used before they
have been defined. All contingencies are banished, as Ludwig
follows the plan of the cosmos itself. If the Tractatus succeeds in
showing that the world is formally beautiful, then this constitutes a
demonstration that God exists and that the world is redeemed.”
After a moment, Madison said, “The conditions under which
your brother wrote his book make it even more remarkable. He
worked in the trenches of the Eastern Front during the last war. The
material world was consumed in horror and ugliness. As shells fell
around him and men died of dysentery in a pointless conflict, your
brother showed that the form of the cosmos was God.”
Frau Stonborough was nodding thoughtfully. Madison
knew that two of her other brothers had shot themselves during the
War; and the third, a famous pianist, had lost his right arm.
Madison wondered whether she could find any consolation in the
abstract system of her youngest sibling.
Marta said, “This is all terribly moving, I’m sure, but what
have we learned about magic languages? Are they possible?”
“I don’t know,” said Madison, “but I’ve learned two things.”
“Well, first of all, a true name would represent the
relationship between a primitive object and all the other objects in
the universe to which it could be connected. If you knew these
names, then every sentence you uttered would be true. This would
be a source of enormous power; it would give you mastery over
nature. Presumably, Adam had such power in the Garden of
Marta said, “If a true name represents all the relationships
between one object and everything else, then it must be rather
“Perhaps,” said Madison, after a moment’s inconclusive
“I’m beginning to understand why serious occultism attracts
people today. Clever men like Yeats, Eliot, Pound, and Rabbi
Halberstam are crazy about it. What can they possibly see in Tarot
“Well, the basic experience of modern life is diversity and
change. There are many languages, many styles, many moralities.
How can any of them be right? But what if there were one secret
language, unchanged since the dawn of history? At least as a poetic
metaphor, this is an awfully appealing idea.”
hope it’s just a metaphor,” said Marta, rising. “Frau
Stonborough, you have been most helpful. Please assist us further
by not mentioning that you have seen Dr. Brown in Vienna.”
Their hostess said, “I am awfully curious about your
mission.” But no one offered her further information, so she added,
“Yet I can be circumspect. The times demand it.”
“Speaking of that,” Madison said, “are you managing all
right in Vienna? The authorities don’t give you much trouble?”
“I happen to be a fellow citizen of yours. I carry an American
“Good. How about the rest of your family?”
“Well, if I’m not mistaken, your background --. I mean,
“The Wittgensteins are Austrians, sir, and have been
Catholics for generations. We’re not the kind of Eastern rabble that
crowds into the Leopoldstadt with their caftans and sidelocks. Of
course, I don’t approve of anti-Semitism. But the Wittgensteins will
“Hold onto that passport,” said Marta.